lyricalechoes

When the soundtrack of my childhood summers plays in my mind, there is always the echo of bright, joyful brass and the beat of the a drum, keeping time when the band paraded down the street of my grandma's town.

We lived in the South so when the days grew long and sticky and we children started to complain about wanting to swim more often, my mother would begin packing for Grandma's house. Even just driving there took two days, so each of us packed plenty of books and many card games of War were played in the back of our old van. Go Fish was harder to manage, sitting all in rows but, now and then, we attempted it to break up the monotony of the miles.

Arriving at Grandma's house, with an "N" in the iron of her screen door, I remember my profound relief at finally exiting the enforced togetherness of my many siblings. I loved finally hearing my younger siblings laugh as we ran up Grandma's long staircase instead of hearing the fussing of toddlers confined too long when all they wished was to move and to explore.

Upstairs, the big beds waited. My sister hated sharing a bed but Grandma mostly had doubles so, during the summer, we learned each other's breathing and awakened together to the morning sun.

Yet the sharing of beds was more than made up for by other factors. My grandma's house was the best in town for a most amazing reason. Her home was the closest to the library! Since it was a town of less than 1,300, only at Grandma's did we suddenly have the freedom to wander at will, to say, "Going to the library, Mom" or "Off to the park with Carla" and know we were free to go. Freedom waited right outside the N door and we took full advantage, going to the library often and riding the old bikes to parks on the far edge of town.

Visiting Grandma's house also meant family, finally seeing distant other cousins who came for the annual Flekkefest. We girl cousins would hang out in packs, checking out all the booths at the craft fair, ooh-ing and ah-ing at each other's purchases, sharing each discovered bit of cuteness that the others "just had to see." I still have a beaded heart bracelet, all the colors of the rainbow that, in all its cheap plastic, still screams "Celebrate Cousins!" to me.

We'd finally see our parents again when we were in line at the Fire Hall Fish Fry, where we'd all eat in a row, the crisply coated-fish crunching, every bite tasting of summer and possibilities. Crispy fish, bready hush puppies, tangy coleslaw-- somehow it all tasted better after running together around that small town.

Every few minutes another older person would come and exclaim to my grandmother about her grandchildren. "And this can't be Victoria's daughter? I remember when your mom was born..." they would exclaim. I was embarrassed at the attention of these unknowns yet strangely enjoyed the feeling of being tied to so many strangers. Others remembered the chain of life which led to me.

Off for a quick run to the park where we would swing and climb, teeter-tottering our little hearts out. The fish was quickly burned from our active little bodies by all our monkey antics. Our favorite teeter-totter game was, of course, "Farmer, Farmer, let me down!", our creativity stretched in the elaborate promises of happy children.

But finally, finally it was time for the parade. It was always a toss-up, participate or spectate. If you watched the parade, there were candy-collecting opportunities galore, great chances to catch the sweet accompaniment for your favorite books. Reading and sucking on sweetness, what could be better?

Yet, now and then, the allure of prizes and the thought of being the focus of the town for just awhile was too great. I remember my brother joining in with the bikes one year, riding Grandpa's old bike decked in streamers and balloons. He didn't win but everyone near me on the sidewalks was loudly told, "That's my brother, doesn't he look great!" Somehow the judges couldn't see what I could, that he was the pinnacle of perfection, the one I strove to emmulate that seemed so far above the cloud of disappointment I was in my parents' sky.

Another year, we entered two of our little siblings, my little brother as a vet in a wagon of our stuffed animals and my little sister as the cutest bride you ever saw, decked in net tulle and lace. Somehow, each year, I don't remember the winners as much as the great anticipation, "Wouldn't this be cute? How about they wear...?" the anticipation greater than the moment, the planning endlessly debated and obsessed over by children who never had to think of bills or travel plans.

Living in the moment, that's what summers were to us.

We'd stake out a good spot, preferably in front of the town sign, with Grandma in a folding chair to rest. Restlessly, we run around, trying to scout. Could that be the parade finally starting? Several times we were tricked and disappointed, then...then finally it began, everything larger than life, the music better, the people prettier, the big floats elaborately advertising places I could see just down the street.

The girls of the town never looked more beautiful than when crowned and riding up on the convertibles and floats. What must it feel to be titled for your loveliness? I gazed enviously at the girls but then forget their beauty in the scramble for the candy they tossed our way.

Each float was different, each band was loud. I wanted to dance when I heard the music, with the drum keeping the beat. Somehow everyone seemed more happy when the band was playing, marching, passing, life was a celebration and the whole town cheered together at the end of each song.

Each year, I hoped the parade would never end and yet it did, the horses passed, the Masons in their little clown cars finally beep-beeped away, the old firetrucks were gone and here came the traffic that had waited behind.

It was a little sad to gather up the chairs and head on back to Grandma's house. But there we could dump our candy on the beds, to combine and count and portion out, so each of us siblings had a stash to eat whenever we wanted to! Oh, the power of choice when you are young, the thought of when to eat what. My mouth watered at the thought but soon it was time to grab our swimsuits for the trip out to the lake.

On we'd ride, arriving to hugs from my mom's aunt and uncle. I could hear the hot dogs and hamburgers sizzling on the grill as I ran back, anxious to stick my toes into the lake even before I changed. And there it was, the water spread before me, tickling my toes like a promise, that somehow I would find some coolness at the end of this hot day.

Swimming, floating, plowing through the water. Secretly I danced beneath it's surface, pointing my toes and pirouetting. I felt so graceful and light moving through the water, imagining that Mom might let me take ballet again. Either way, tonight I was a princess, a floating sprite, lovely as the crowned girls in the parade, bowing beneath the water as the audience within my head cheered loud, this time for me. Sometimes pretending, sometimes just watching the others splash and enjoy the water, I was always happiest embraced by the gentle waves, watching my cousins and even the grown-ups horse around and splash as all of us enjoyed the coolness of the blue, blue lake.

"Time to eat!" Uncle Philip would bellow and out of the water we would race, grabbing towels and wrapping up so we wouldn't get the dry people on the benches wet. I loved our cook out food but the best part was the corn, sweet and succulent, bitten straight off the cob. I was always amazed by how much Grandma liked it. With her false teeth, she couldn't munch it off like we did but she wasn't going to miss out, so cob after cob, she'd cut straight down off the cob, peeling it off in long strips of yummy sweetness. Grandma was legendary in her love for corn on the cob. Years later, at her funeral, again the townspeople spoke of how much Sara loved her corn.

No lake cook-out would be complete without watermelon. Eating outside, the older boys competed at how far out in the water they could spit the seeds. We'd laugh at their antics and practice some ourselves, hearing a "Good one, cuz!" from a big kid, the highest praise we knew.

Sometimes after we ate, Uncle Philip would speed us around the lake in his motor boat. The bigger cousins would try water skiing and I would cheer as the got up and laugh when they fell as we circled around to pick them up again. But when water skiing was done, we'd turn around home, stopping by to pick the cattails and watching the herons dive then fly away into orange stripes of sunset over the water.

Into our cars, with wet hair, holding inner tubes and cattails, we'd watch drowsily out the windows driving back to Grandma's, day-dreaming of candy and the library books we hadn't cracked yet in such a full day.

Arriving back, the older cousins would change for the town's square dance. Grandma was going, she'd meet Uncle Philip and Aunt Florence there, who were good enough to compete in square dances. The older cousins would hang out the other teens. I remember marveling at my cousin's beauty, wondering if some small town boy would spot her. Would they dance together? Did she know how to kiss?

But "Off to bed, my children!" my mom would cry and I'd steal one last look at the older ones behind my shoulder as we padded up the stairs. Someday, I wanted to enter that world of teenage-hood but tonight, tonight my head cried out for pillows more than kisses.

Summer at Grandma's was corn on the cob and fireflies, wading through the seaweed and spitting watermelon seeds, going to bed with hair wet from the lake and listening to the beat of the dance music riding the night breeze into my window. Now in memory, I remember the far off beat; to my mind: the rhythm of summer's heart.